Twelve Pies
by Tribble Master
Summary: Bobby Singer lives a normal life in a sleepy South Dakota town. He has a loving wife who likes to bake pies. Usually they smell so sweet, but today... Today is a little different.Today is a little rotten. Spoiler for: Dream A Little Dream of Me


**oh hai guys...how y'all doing? this is the story that broke my muse. it's taken me longer than any other story to write, and i hope you like it.  
disclaimer: i do not own them, only one lonely slice of apple pie. **

**Twelve Pies**

"What can I get for you?"

Bobby Singer looked up with tired eyes at the smiling barman in the old diner. He'd fixed the guys car last week. Joanne had even given him a pie when he left. But that was in the past. "Something strong," he said in a gruff voice.

Digger Thompson pulled up a barstool next to him. Smiling, he said, "How you been Bobby? Haven't seen you in town for a couple of days now."

Bobby took a sip of the whiskey put in front of him and shrugged. "Ain't had reason to, I suppose."

Digger raised one eyebrow quizzically. "Erm, okay" He paused and looked at the beer he had in one hand. "Hey, do you think I could come by later? My car's all screwed to hell."

Bobby began to pick at the reddened skin on his knuckles. "No." he said firmly. "Closin' up shop." His eyesight fixated and the knuckles as his thumb rubbed over the skin of his right hand. "Useless," he muttered, "Useless."

Digger looked at his friend up and down. The blotted red on Bobby's knuckles wasn't fading, no matter how hard his fingers scrubbed. "What's on your hand?" Digger inquired.

"Nothing." Bobby grumbled. With as much will as he could manage he set his hands on the counter. Small tremors still made them shake. He groaned and reached for his glass as he tried to erase the memories of the misshapen funeral he'd just attended.

The more he drank though, the more the memories just seemed to solidify. The diner's waitress saw his distress and walked up. "Mista Singer," Charlene drawled, "wouldja like some pie? Just came outta the oven, nice n' hot."

"No," he said burying his head in his hands. "No more pie. No more."

Charlene looked at Digger, who just shrugged. "Let me know if you need anything," she said as she walked away.

Bobby sighed, there was only one thing he wanted it and it was gone.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o _One Week Earlier _o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It'd been raining for nearly two weeks, thick and heavy South Dakota style storms. Joanne declared that they'd have to make their own sunshine if the weather wasn't going to be compliant. "I'll bake some pie," she had said at breakfast that morning as the rain hit the window panes. "Especially with Sue's husband missing, it'll cheer up the whole neighborhood."

Not that there was much of a neighborhood around the house. The area surrounding Singer Salvage Yard was nearly empty for miles. Sue Rank was a good friend though, and her husband's disappearance was a bit of a local phenomenon. He hadn't been a drinker, or someone apt to runaway, and he hadn't been the only one to disappear.

At the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was generally agreed that they needed more sunshine, and Joanne was famous for her pies. She kissed her husband on the cheek and told him not to worry. She wouldn't forget lunch.

"Now go work on your cars," Joanne laughed, "and I'll see you soon darling."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Bobby lumbered outside to work on an old Ford pick up truck. When he walked into the garage he was surprised to see all his tools rearranged. He must have forgotten to clean up, he rationalized, after he worked here last. It was a stretch to think that he hadn't taken care of tools, but he accepted it. What he couldn't accept was how his saw had gotten half way across the room.

Rumsfield, he decided.

Damn dog was always nosing around. With half a grin, he picked up the tool and carried the blade back to its place on the wall. The teeth were worn down from strenuous use and it wasn't as lustrous as it once had been. Bobby hung it on the hook on the wall before going back to putting away other tools.

The hammer was misplaced as well. He couldn't be sure, but he was fairly positive the wooden hammer hadn't been as splintered before. Oh well, when you use them you have to expect some wear and tear.

With everything in its place he grabbed the cables he'd meant to grab and went back to the truck. As he opened the hood, he grimaced at the truck's innards. "Whatta mess," he muttered to himself, "Terrible waste of a good car. If the owner had only known how to take care of you…"

He stepped back from the twisted inside and took a mental stock of the repairs he'd have to do on the car. It was almost certainly junk. Most things this damaged weren't worth the effort it took to repair them. As he turned, he nearly tripped on the large rottweiler lying on the ground by the car. The dog yelped once and leaped on to its large paws. Rumsfield regarded Bobby with a curious glance and then bent down to pick up the large bone he'd dropped.

"Whatcha got there boy?" Bobby said with an outstretched hand.

Rumsfield reluctantly dropped the bone. Bobby looked at it lying in the grass. It was long, muddy but clearly white, and it had markings on it. Areas where either the dog had been gnawing or something had been cutting. When he reached out to grab it, the dog growled. "Alright, alright," he sighed, "take your stupid bone."

The rottweiler wagged its stumpy tail and picked it up. Bobby looked at the shape and tried to place it. There weren't any moose in the area, or large game. Small animals certainly didn't have bones that big. "Rumsfield where did you get that bone?" he asked slowly.

The dog barked and ran off in the opposite direction without a hint of where he'd gotten the treat. Scratching his head, Bobby decided to abandon the scrap project for the time being. He'd have to go the general store in town for some of the parts anyway.

Bobby strolled back towards the house, stopping as he heard the clack clack of Rumsfield playing in the back yard. When he peered around the house he gasped. The broad-chested rottweiler had dug a huge hole, nearly grave size, in the back yard. There was a pile of bones in the shallow muddy hole. The dog had his choice of femurs or tibas to munch on… all with little scraps cut in. As if someone with only a little strength had cut them apart.

"Rumsfield come here." he ordered. The dog's ears fell and he slumped sadly over to Bobby. They walked together towards the house.

Inside, it was clear Joanne was baking. You could always tell because she sang when she baked. She generally hummed, or carried some sort of tune. It was one of those things that made him love her so much. But today as he walked in, the tune was off and the lyrics to _You're My Sunshine _were all wrong.

"Hey, sweat heart." Bobby said with a grin.

The kitchen was dusted in flour and dough was sticking to most of the surfaces. The largest pot they owned was bubbling on the stove. Something red and thick was busy boiling. Joanne was standing by the stove stirring with her wooden spoon, smiling. She turned around at the sound of Bobby's voice, "Oh hey, I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least."

The oven gave a small chirp and she turned to it, setting down her spoon in the process. She smoothly grabbed her oven mitt and walked across the kitchen in three long steps. She pulled out two pies from the oven and set them on the counter next to three others.

One had uneven edges, the other was lumpy. They were all strangely imperfect. "Didn't mean to startle you," Bobby said as he watched her work. "How many pies are you making?"

She laughed at his question and shrugged. "Made too much filling," she said with a gesture to the bubbling pot. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with pie."

"That's true." He nodded. _Nothing wrong with pie, generally _he thought. Except these pies, didn't smell right. When Joanne baked pies, they smelled sweet and fresh. He didn't know how, but they even had a way of smelling like everything he loved about home; her, old cars, one lazy dog, and South Dakota rain in the summer. These pies smelled rotted. Rumsfield had his nose in the air, and Bobby could smell it to. Something was burning, like meat but fouler still. "Can I have a taste?"

"Not yet," Joanne said as she went back to stirring. She looked up at him and smiled. Her lips curled back and her teeth were almost dangerous. "They need to cool."

Bobby edged closer to the counter top. "What are they? Strawberry?"

Joanne stirred the pot pushing down bits of chunks that came up. "Yes," she smiled sweetly, "And rhubarb and raspberries. All your favorites."

Rumsfield looked up at her and then at Bobby. He edged closer to Joanne and froze. The rottweiler ears flattened against the side of his head as he let out a low growl. She looked down at the dog and laughed. "What do you think is the matter with the dog today?"

"You mean Rumsfield?" Bobby asked.

"You know what I meant, honey."

"Right." Bobby nodded as he moved closer to the pies. He ran his hand in the flour, stirring up small swirls of powder. "I'm sure he's just hungry or something."

"Maybe you should take him outside." She suggested as she wiped her hands on her apron. Bobby watched her movemnts carefully. As her slender fingers rubbed off on the apron, long red smears appeared over the soft cotton blue. She looked up at him and smiled, "If you wouldn't mind, dear."

It was then he realized, she didn't call him Bobby.

She called him Robert, or Dear, or Sweet Heart, or Pass Me the Sugar, Honey. But she didn't call him his nickname; the one she'd been calling him since they started dating. Joanne smiled, and she sang and she played her role.

But he was starting to wonder if she wasn't Joanne.

Bobby looked her up and done. "You know, Rumsfield found something interesting out back today."

"Oh?" she asked with forced disinterest.

"Care to guess what?" Bobby asked as he looked at the four pies in front of him.

She shrugged. "Bobby, I really need you out of the kitchen."

"Why?" His voice started to rise. "Is there something you don't want me to know?"

"Know?" She said calmly. The corners of her mouth folded upwards, and she smiled softly. "You never knew anything."

"I do know this, Joanne," Bobby reached out to the pies. "There is something in these pies and it's not any kind of berry!"

Before she could stop him he pushed pie off the countertop. The steaming crust broken open, spilling out it's insides onto the floor. Among the red splatter were blobs, and they weren't strawberries. They were fleshy and pink and one looked faintly like a piece of an ear lobe. Joanne looked down at the mess and sighed. "You shouldn't have done that," she said sweetly. "But you just didn't know."

Bobby pointed a shaky hand down at the splattered mess. "That's—that's-"

"Mr. Rank." She sighed. "There's a storm coming, darling, and there are bound to be a few wayward sheep gobbled up."

"You—you—were gonna feed that to—to—Sue…" Bobby stammered incoherently.

"Honey, see, this is why I just can't have you around. You just wouldn't handle the truth." Joanne sighed and turned around. "And now I have to clean up your mess."

Bobby clenched his hand together. His nails dug into the skin of his palm, nearly drawing blood. He looked at the countertops and saw a large kitchen knife lying out. Joanne's back was still turned when he picked up.

If you had asked him a week ago if he believed in God he would have said sure, but he didn't know now. A week ago even, he would have sworn there was nothing supernatural, and religion was just a thing you did on Sundays. Yet, here he was, suddenly wondering if he'd woken up in hell. If there was a God, he prayed he was doing the right thing.

Joanne reached for the kitchen towel hanging by the faucet and turned around. Her eyes widened in horror for a moment as she saw her husband wielding the knife. She had beautiful eyes, the kind you could get lost it. As he looked at her, they flashed black momentarily. In that second, Bobby stopped thinking and started working on instinct.

He plunged the knife down.

Joanne screamed as the blade sunk into her chest once, then twice. Joanne pushed out her hand, catching him in the chest. Bobby lost his grip and stumbled back away from her.

"Robert Singer," Joanne hissed as she looked down on him, "how could you do such a thing to your lovely wife?"

"You're not my wife…" Bobby stammered. "You're…."

"A demon." She said with a grunt as she pulled the blade out of her chest. "See? You're learning already."

"A demon." Bobby repeated as he watched blood trickle down his wife's green t-shirt. The pearls she wore even had blood on them. The color was draining from Joanne- his Joanne's—face. He looked around the kitchen for something else to use. "What else should I know?"

Joanne watched him move like a hawk. "That old yellow eyes wants you alive, unfortunately."

Bobby snatched up the meat pounder from the vase of utensils in a flash and swung it violently. In a movement faster than the he could blink, she grabbed his wrist. He clenched his teeth together and looked her in the eye furiously. "You won't get away with this," he grunted.

Joanne laughed and tilted her head back. The deep rumble of her laughter used to fill him with joy, but now he only felt terror. A ripple seemed to catch in her chest and travel up her throat as black murky smoke poured out of her skin. It seemed unending; the sulfurs smelling cloud flew from her mouth, nose, and ears in one desperate escape.

When it did end, when he seemed to feel his heart beating again, her grip on his wrist went slack. Joanne blinked twice, trying to understand what was happening. She caught Bobby's eyes and smiled in relief as she fell to the ground.

"Joanne?" Bobby dropped to his knees, cradling her among the mess of bloody pie filling. "Is it really you, baby?"

Joanne's brows furrowed as she gasped in pain. "…Bobby…"

It was the sweetest word he ever heard. He brushed his fingers through her soft hair. As he opened his mouth to explain, her eyes rolled into the back of her head. All motion in the room ceased.

Rumsfield whined from the doorway and slowly moved toward them. He lowered his head and licked Joanne's hand tenderly. The dog looked up at Bobby and whined softly. Bobby could only cry harder as he pulled Joanne closer.

He didn't know enough, the demon had said, he just didn't know enough. Bobby kissed Joanne's forehead softly and promised her, promised himself, he would learn.

**_the end_**


End file.
